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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995736">The Promotion</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookyTarot/pseuds/SpookyTarot'>SpookyTarot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Girl Genius (Webcomic), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:47:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookyTarot/pseuds/SpookyTarot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>with the wake of  Terebithia De Leon's, head Archivist of the Mangus Institute, disappearance her duties and position fall to Tarvek Sturmvoraus. But things are never as they seem in The Magnus Institute.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Promotion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Look Vi, its...” Tarvek trails off unsure. Obviously, a death wasn’t nothing, and obviously his promotion wasn’t nothing and the two were clearly were connected in some way he doesn’t quite yet understand. How to explain that without sounding like a paranoid freak was another problem. Violetta knew him, this would just seem like him responding badly to yet another death in his life. Maybe she’d be right to, after all his is benefitting from his benefactor's death. “Be careful, alright?  I think I remember seeing that place mentioned in a paper or something,” Tarvek finishes phone still held with his shoulder. He pulls open the door of the archives with one hand as Violetta say her good byes. His heels click against the linoleum floors and echo off the walls as he walks past rows of shelved files. Setting his box on one of the empty desks in the bullpen work area, he slides his phone into a pocket and turns to look over his new domain.  </p><p>In many ways the Archive was similar to the Library. Though he could tell from a cursory glance that the Library was far better organized. The boxes of files were overflowing, statements seemingly shoved in haphazardly after the boxes had been filled past capacity. The shelves were littered with supplies, various knick-knacks and most dreadfully snacks. Including the coffee mug sitting precariously on a shelf by a massive book wheel, which Boris took a drink from while cross referencing several files </p><p>“Morning, Sturmvoraus ” Boris says not even looking at him. </p><p>“Morning, Mr.Dolokov” he smiles weakly at the older man, who rightly should have gotten this promotion, while he fumbles with the lock to Grandm-- the Head Archivist’s-- him – his, his HIS,  to his office. The reek of mildew and Grandmother’s cigarettes was even stronger inside the office than out. The office could only be described as the 3D version of a conspiracy theorist’s pegboard. The walls were covered in what must have been at least three inches of theories and code. The tangled knots of multicolored yarn and twine. The various maps covered with overburdened push pins and scrawling cursive script. All of it covered in a more than healthy layer of dust and grime.  The only place that had ever been cleaned with any consistency had been the desk, where everything was within easy reach save for a performative accordion picture frame closed so the pictures weren’t visible and a glass name plate with the institute logo and “Terabithia DeLeon Head Archivist” engraved onto its surface. </p><p>Everything perfectly cultivated to paint the picture of a frazzled overworked old woman and loving doting grandmother.  A laughable thought, he knew his family (well enough to see the lie at least). At kindest she was a stone-cold bitch. At worst a manipulative murderer. Honestly if it wasn’t for the fact that whoever did her in was likely even worse than she was, he might have sent them a thank you note.  Doubtless some of his cousins already have regardless. </p><p>He closes the door, puts the box on the ground. He idly spins Grandmother’s-- the archivist’s- his, his, his desk chair while looking around at the sheer amount of work Terebithia had done. It will take him years to get through it all, not even taking his actual job here into account. He sighs taking in a deep breath of the sweet aroma of paper and ink clashing against the sour smell of mildew and second hand smoke. As well as a more than healthy amount of dust which sends him into a coughing fit.  He leans heavily on the chair trying to steady himself.  It rolls out under the added weight. Flailing he crashes into the desk, shoving it forward with a loud shriek of metal against linoleum. Something falls on the floor with a shatter.  </p><p>Swearing a blue streak through rasping coughs, he picks himself up. Walking around the desk, he sees the accordion frame opened, the glass broken and scattered across the office floor. Careful of the glass, he picks up the accordion photo frame and takes out the pictures inside before tossing the frame in the waste bin. </p><p> </p><p>He then flips the small stack of photos. The first picture is a Polaroid that is at least 40 years old featuring man and a woman kneeling behind two girls with a garishly decorated tree in the background. All four of them smiling wide. The woman holds an infant in her arms. It takes him a moment to realize that she is Grandmother. The man however, he doesn’t recognize at all. Curious he turns the picture over where neat handwriting says, “Tiffany’s first Christmas, Séraphine age 2, Rosalind age 5 -- Monty" and then in scrawling hand “Monty De Leon”. His grandfather then. Tarvek shuffles the photo to the back of the pile.  </p><p> The next picture is another polaroid.  Its his Mum in a bridesmaid's gown lifting a glass. The rest of the guests are blurry but if Grandmother was there to want pictures it was likely a family event. He takes a moment to look at her smiling face, and tries to remember if he ever saw her that happy. He slips the picture into the inside pocket of his jacket. </p><p>The next picture with people he recognizes is one of Aunt Tiffany and Uncle Jerry at their wedding. More pictures of people she likely killed. He half expects the next picture to be of Emma Vance. Instead it's a candid picture of his cousin, Martellus, with his dogs. He knew for a fact that Martellus had quit the institute a week ago and had seen him after her disappearance. Still it was hard to equate the smiling boy in the picture to the angry man he knew.  He shuffles this one to the back of the pile.  </p><p> Seffie standing infront of the institute. The white of her smile curved in pride, hair tied back in a high ponytail. Behind her, Martellus glares as if he would like nothing more than to strangle to person taking the picture. Tarvek scowls, she disappeared barely a year after this picture was taken if his math is correct. He glares as the photo for a few moments, then flips it to the back of the pile.  </p><p>Him and Annie at Disneyland Paris posing with Donald Duck, the employee who had taken the version he had in the most obnoxious frame at his flat just barely visible in the foreground. In the back of his mind he remembers his grandmother insisting on letting her take pictures of them with her beaten to hell automatic camera and it clicks that she likely took all of these pictures herself.  He flips to the next picture. Revealing the smiling De Leon family once more.  </p><p>Tarvek falls into his chair then flips through the pile a few more time before tossing it onto the desk. Save for him and Martellus he’s fairly certain every person in those pictures were dead now. Why had Grandmother even kept those around anyway, its not as if she’d ever been the sentimental sort. Did she just like photography? No that’s likely what she wanted him to think, but why else would she have taken that relic she called a camera everywhere? Maybe it was like the book? No that didn’t make any sense, he’d know if that was the case.<br/>
Right? </p><p>“This place is an absolute nightmare,”  Tarvek groans, running a hand through his hair while spinning in the chair.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This started out as a joke in the TMA and GG servers I am in. A joke that rapidly spiraled into an au which inspired *this*. I'm not sure if I will write more of this au, but I like this chapter enough to post it rather than let it collect dust in my word processor. I hope you liked it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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